


Driftwood

by UrbanHymnal



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Missing Scene, One-Sided Relationship, Pining, The Empty Hearse, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-28
Updated: 2014-01-28
Packaged: 2018-01-10 10:02:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1158311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UrbanHymnal/pseuds/UrbanHymnal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock sneaked pieces of driftwood home, tucked in his pockets, and later burned them in a coffee tin, and never forgot that sometimes things that were dangerous could also be beautiful.</p><p>----</p><p>A missing scene fic for The Empty Hearse. Takes place immediately following the bonfire.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Driftwood

Fire had never bothered him.

When he was a child, his father built bonfires every summer when they visited the beach. It was a time honoured tradition, according to his father (a waste of time, according to Mycroft) and in those early years, Sherlock loved the simple task of gathering the bits of wood he could carry under his father’s watchful eye before heading down to the shoreline. When he asked why he couldn’t just burn the sticks they found at the beach, Mycroft sniffed at him, having already perfected his look of disdain and haughtiness, and told him it was toxic to do so. (Sherlock sneaked pieces of driftwood home, tucked in his pockets, and later burned them in a coffee tin, and never forgot that sometimes things that were dangerous could also be beautiful.)

But he never minded the work involved because at the end of it, once his father deemed that the wood had been piled just right, and his mother finished tutting about the sand in her shoes, and Mycroft finished glaring at the sea, it finally grew quiet enough for Sherlock to listen to the fire. The wood popped and cracked, showering the night sky with delicate flakes of fire and ash. Mycroft mocked him for his romanticism when he said the little motes of fire reminded him of stars. He never mentioned it again, but he loved those moments. When he wiggled his toes into the sand, he relished the way the top layer gave way to colder, wetter sand under his persistent digging and the little thrill of chill that raced up his legs even as his face felt overly warm from sitting too close to the flames. Smoke clung to his shirt, burrowed its musk into his curls, and later, when he finally returned home, belly full of marshmallows and face sticky, he fought with his mother about taking a bath to rid him of the smell of burnt wood. He loved that smell and how it permeated everything he wore.

The smell that lingers on him now is nothing like the one he remembers from his childhood. Suffocating. Painful. It burns his eyes (the only explanation for why unshed tears stick his lashes together) and clogs his throat. He banishes it-- the memories, the fear, the sticky tar mudding his throat-- and tugs his now ruined gloves from his hands, so he may better run his fingers through John’s hair. Blood and sweat mats the strands, tangling them around Sherlock fingers, and in the half-light given from the bonfire, Sherlock cannot tell which is which. His hands tingle. John’s skin is superheated again his palm as he slides it down John’s neck to cradle his head.

“John, can you hear me? Love, the ambulance is on its way.” Mary drops to the ground next to John, tossing her mobile aside. Her fingers lightly brush his forehead, cautiously seeking out the source of the blood that is smeared along his hairline. The tips of her fingers come away red. She hums in sympathy when John gives a little groan that sounds a bit like ‘Mary.’

Sherlock jerks, but stills his hands from tightening. He had forgotten Mary was here. How had he forgotten? She leans in closer, tickling Sherlock’s nose with the smell of her perfume mixing with smoke, and gently cradles John’s cheek.

John’s eyes are glassy and vacant, staring lost in the space between where Sherlock and Mary are bent over him. His mouth works silently, puffs of air coming out in little wheezes. A harsh cough rips out of him, jerking his shoulders and head up off the ground, and is quickly followed by another. He paws uselessly at Sherlock, arms leaden and palms barely making contact. Mary acts before Sherlock can and slips her arm under John’s shoulders, pulling him upright. His head rolls and comes to rest against her shoulder. The coughing stops only long enough for him to shudder and bury his face in her neck before starting up again. He retches and leans away long enough to hack hard, dispelling a thick line of grey mucus from his lungs.

Sherlock tries not to think of scorched airways and damaged lungs and how quickly someone can suffocate from smoke inhalation (enclosed area, minutes; likelihood of John succumbing to flames first due to accelerant-- delete). He tamps down the urge to cough in sympathy and meets Mary’s gaze for a second. Her eyes are pinched as she looks at him, then John, then goes back to scanning the crowd.

She tenses as a man breaks away from the gathered crowd. He runs up, hand fumbling in his pocket, and Sherlock notes the way Mary tugs John closer, but keeps one arm free. On edge. Looking for potential threats. Protective. Sherlock gives him another glance. Too clumsy to be a ruse. Jacket is well-worn, sturdy. Knicks on his knuckles. Calluses. Works with his hands.  Construction. No, plumber. Uneven stitching along the elbow of the jacket and the bags under his eyes say all Sherlock needs to know: single father, overworked, money used on things other than a new jacket.

Ah. Widower. Father of the little girl standing just on the edge of the firelight.

He fumbles a moment more before pulling a plastic water bottle out of his jacket. “Is he all right?”

“Yes. Fine. Thank you,” Sherlock bites the words off, a bark to keep others away. Gawkers. Usually so useful because they tend to see things in all their nosing about and are just as happy to pass along every bit of information to anyone who bothers to ask. He should move away from John and talk to them; someone had to have seen something, someone may still be watching them, someone might still want to hurt John, but he cannot move from where he is kneeling on the cold, muddy ground. The thought of talking to anyone other than John turns his stomach hollow. 

“Right, ‘course. Here.” He tosses the plastic bottle even as he backs up. It smacks into Sherlock’s hand, stinging his palm.  

He rips the lid off the bottle, dampens the edge of his scarf, then hands the bottle off to Mary. John drinks greedily, Adam’s apple bobbing in his haste to quench his thirst. A thin rivulet streaks down his chin, follows the path of his throat. His hand shakes as he tries to take the bottle from Mary; she gives it over gradually, hand hovering just in case. When he is finished, the bottle drops empty and useless from his hand. He closes his eyes, face weary-dark and ash smudged in the light.  

Sherlock squeezes his scarf between his fingers. He edges forward, fingers hesitant, before gently wiping the fabric across John’s face. It scratches across his cheek, catching in the fine stubble there. John hums and leans his weight against Mary’s chest. Another swipe and the black smudges around his nose and mouth slowly vanish to reveal too red skin. On the next pass, John mumbles against Sherlock’s fingers, catching one of Sherlock’s knuckles against his chapped bottom lip.

“ ‘s nice.”

Sherlock burns cold, hand frozen against John’s face.

Mary presses her lips against John’s hair. Sherlock can feel her eyes on his face, studying, judging. She hums quietly in acknowledgement. Sherlock breaks up under her gaze, thawing and disintegrating. He watches her, sees the moment when she holds up the shards of him and knows.

Smart. Observant. Of course, she is. John wouldn’t waste his time with someone who isn’t. He pulls away, wrapping the scarf around his left hand, tightening it until the cloth rubs raw the skin on his palm. He is only distantly aware of the persistent ache, the dull throb of burned flesh.

The medics rush forward, pushing him out of the way, and the distance between him and John grows. He stands on the edge of the scene and counts out John’s breaths as they cloud the oxygen mask, a smokescreen shielding John’s mouth from view and any responses he gives to the people tending over him. He’s caught, waiting for John to come back to himself, alive and running and grinning at him.

While he is lost, walking the same path over and over as looks for signs of life, the police arrive and spread out. He spares them a brief glance. Sherlock doesn’t know them. Not surprising; he knows so little of London these days. He is a ghost, a memory of days past, in a city that has moved on. He answers questions asked of him in short perfunctory responses, never removing his eyes from the huddle of emergency personnel gathered around John. He tamps down the fear that washes up and breaks along his spine.

Minutes pass before he glimpses at John again. A medic steps away and John makes a move to pull the mask off his face. Even from here, Sherlock can see the grimace John gives at the suggestion of going to hospital. He stands on shaking legs and leans against Mary. A police officer slips a card into Mary’s hand with promises to follow up. The pair of them make their way slowly to the street, John only successfully masking his exhaustion from those that don’t know him as Sherlock does. As Mary does. Sherlock follows. He’s flotsam, breaking up and drifting in John’s wake. 

A cab is already waiting when he makes it to the kerb. John is staring at the open door with the empty confusion of someone who is too worn to make sense of anything around them. Mary tugs at his sleeve, trying to maneuver him into the open door.

“Sherlock? Little help, please?”

He jumps forward, daring to close the gap between them, and settles his hand gently between John’s shoulderblades. Mary slides into the backseat first, fingers tangled in John’s hand, and carefully pulls him down. John’s foot catches on the pavement and he stumbles, saved only by the sure grip of Sherlock’s hand wrapping around his elbow. It is an awkward fumble for several seconds; John moves drunkenly, hands splayed out in front of him.

“Fine. Fine. I’m fine.” He pats Sherlock’s chest then crumbles into the seat.

“Sherlock? Don’t just stand there. Get in. I won’t be able to get him settled on my own.”

“Said I was fine.” John groans and thumps his head against the seat.

“Yes, yes. Pillar of manly strength. Very impressive. Definitely impressed with the way you shooed the paramedics off.” Mary’s hand tightens around John’s knee, even as she turns to look out the window.

Sherlock ducks into the backseat. John leans into him, seeking his heat. Fine tremors run along John’s frame as his body gives into the persistent pounding of exhaustion and fear. Through the layers of fabric, Sherlock’s nerves pop and crack, throwing up blue sparks. He rests against John. Dangerous.

“If you should be examined by doctors, perhaps we should make the trip?”

John shakes his head. “Just a little smoke.”

“And a head injury.” Sherlock’s eyes dart briefly to the line of steri-strips keeping John’s skin together.

John grimaces. “Cuts. More tired from whatever the hell they used to knock me out than anything.” He holds up a shaking hand and gently pats Mary’s hand where it still rests on his knee. “Besides, Mary can take care of me.”

Sherlock turns and studies the streets as they move past. He counts the traffic lights until John and Mary’s home. One. John huffs at his side. Two. He lets out a small snore. Three. Mary nudges him. Sherlock feels John shift closer to her. Four. John’s knee bumps against Sherlock’s leg. Five. Their house appears on the right.

Sherlock jumps out of the cab just as it pulls to a stop. The driver gives a shout of annoyance, but he ignores him and pulls a still groggy John to his feet. He lets Mary pay and shuffles towards the door. By the time the two of them reach it, Mary is fumbling with her keys to open the door. It is the first time he has seen the inside of their home.

“Think you can settle him in the bedroom while I get him something for his head?” Mary tugs her scarf off and hangs it next to the door. She doesn’t tell him where the bedroom is because he is already tugging John along towards it.

He kicks the door closed behind them. John is boneless and pliant against him and tips far too easily onto the bed. Sherlock catches him and helps him slip out of his jacket, then hesitates at the buttons on his shirt.

John clears his throat and blinks slowly at him. “I can manage. If you don’t mind getting my shoes. Pretty sure I’d fall over if I tried.” He makes at a smile. One cheeks jerks before he aborts the motion and licks his lips. “Christ, I could use a shower.”

Sherlock kneels and tugs at his shoelaces, slipping first one boot off then the other. “Unwise, I should think.” His fingers easily slip under the edge of John’s sock and tugs it free from his foot. The arch of John’s foot is warm against his palm. He drops it as if scalded. Above him, John struggles with the sleeves of his shirt. With a huff he rips it off and tosses it carelessly in the corner. His hair sticks up in the back. Sherlock’s fingers twitch.

The bedroom door opens. Sherlock stands quickly and moves away.

“Skip the shower tonight, yeah? This do?” Mary holds up a damp flannel and John nods, taking it and running it across his face, neck, down his arms, and then ineffectually makes a go of trying to clean his hair. He quickly gives up on getting it clean and sets the cloth down on the bedside table. Mary hands over a glass of water and pills.

His jaw cracks in a yawn as he scratches at his stomach. His shirt rucks up a bit and reveals a flash of skin. One glance down at his trousers and he shrugs before flopping down on to his pillow. Sherlock glances at his face, noting the way the lines that frame his eyes are already slackening in sleep, and takes his cue to leave.

He quickly makes his way toward the door, tightening his coat around him and readjusting his scarf. Mary follows quick on his heels, though he makes no move to slow down. He steps out into the cool evening air and breathes slowly.

“Sherlock?”

He turns just enough to show that he is listening.

Mary stops short of following him outside and curls her fingers around the doorjam. “You could stay. If you-- if you wanted to.”

John’s voice floats from down the hall, confused and roughened by smoke and sleep. “Mary?”

“Be right there!” Mary pauses and stares at Sherlock. “Honestly, I don’t mind.”

“Hm, no. Think it best to be leaving now.” He pulls a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, taps the pack until one slips free.

“You two.” She shakes her head. “ _John_ wouldn’t mind.”

The cigarette lights easily, despite the way his hands throb and shake slightly now that he takes the time to notice the burns on them. He shakes his head and walks away. The light from the doorway guides his steps until he turns the corner. The walk back to the flat will do him good, will give him time to gain distance, perspective.

He takes a slow drag from his cigarette. His lungs burn as he holds it in. Dioxin. Benzene. John’s sleep-slackened face pressed against Mary’s neck. He tips his head back and blows smoke out into the cold night air.


End file.
